


100 Words (Or More)  About Richard and Alec

by just_ann_now



Category: Swordspoint - Kushner
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Ficlet, First Impressions, First Kiss, First Meetings, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 7,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_ann_now/pseuds/just_ann_now
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of <i>Swordspoint</i> drabbles and ficlets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The New Tenant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written and posted for the "Fandom Snowflakes Challenge", January, 2012.

The man in the doorway was fresh faced, with dark hair curling behind his ears and vivid blue eyes. Marie’s heart lept.

“Excuse me, mistress, I’m here to inquire about some rooms to let..."

Marie’s heart fell. _Of course._ Well, he was pretty, and seemed well-mannered. He’d definitely be an improvement over the previous tenants. 

“Yes, indeed!” she replied with a smile. “Let’s go take a look.“ She motioned him ahead of her up the stairs. His rear view was as pleasant as the front. _Oh yes,_ she thought. _This one’s a keeper. I think his rent just went down. _


	2. The Watcher (100 words)

From his table in the corner, Richard watches.

Every now and again the scholar tosses back his hair, sable and chestnut flowing rich and thick as velvet. His fingers shuffling the cards are long, slender, well-formed, though the nails are bitten to the quick. Surveying the room for his next mark, his eyes catch Richard's, just for a moment. Surprisingly, he blushes; bites his lip and looks away.

_Ahhh, interesting_, Richard thinks, smiling as he gestures to the barmaid. When the scholar reaches for his drink, finding warm spiced wine in place of watery ale, he'll know whom to thank.


	3. The Scholar's Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted April, 2009. I'd been working on a drabble series inspired by Alec's hands, and had the first drabble roughed-out, when a friend wrote about her fascination with a co-worker's hands:__
>
>> _They're not particularly beautiful, in the classical sense, but he does have some very nice, slender fingers - and I find my eyes trailing them whenever he explains a point - when I should be paying attention to what he's saying. _
> 
> Which, of course, set me right off.

The scholar's hands are not particularly beautiful, in the classical sense; his nails are bitten to the quick, the cuticles torn and bloodied. But the fingers themselves are slender, elegant, well-formed; Richard cannot take his eyes off them. He knows it's making the man nervous - he keeps glancing in Richard's direction - but that doesn't stop him at all.

_It's a good thing I don't play cards,_ Richard thinks. Those fingers are too distracting. I would be imagining them doing, well, all sorts of things, when I should be paying attention to exactly how he's trying to cheat me.


	4. Reckless (179 words)

_Quit thinking with your prick,_ Richard's common sense told him. _He doesn't belong here. He reeks of trouble. _

But Richard lived by his instincts, and right now they were telling him that there was more to the ragged scholar than bitter wit and foolish daring. A mystery to be unraveled, sometime, but not now: for now he was fascinated, drawn like a moth to a flame.

He watched those lips, curled in cynical laughter, and imagined them sweet and firm beneath his. He studied the fluid motion of those fingers, caressing the deck of tattered cards with unconscious skill, and thought about how they would feel on his body. A sheen of sweat had formed along the side of the man's throat, and then Richard could think of nothing more than how that skin would taste, how their bodies would smell tangled together in his bed. He took a long draw of ale, trying to control the reckless desire humming in his blood.

_Trouble, trouble, trouble,_ his common sense shrieked, but his instincts whispered,_ he'll be worth the risk._

_ _ _ _ _

"The tone of Alec's voice, the showiness of his antagonism, were hopelessly reminiscent of the first time they'd met. Then, his foolish daring and bitter wit had attracted Richard." _Swordspoint, p. 261 (Bantam Spectra edition)_


	5. More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted July, 2010. A birthday ficlet for Marta.

"Let's get out the hell of here," Richard said.

For once, the scholar didn't argue - he'd been arguing with people all evening, until Richard just couldn't stand the racket any more. The scholar gaped down at the dead man on the floor, then stepped over him, delicately as a cat, and headed up the stairs and out the door. Richard followed. 

The air outside was cool and fresh after an early-evening thunderstorm. Richard felt good. Things had been dull lately until he'd become fascinated with the ragged stranger, his foolish daring and bitter wit. This killing shook things up, exhilarated him. Grabbing the scholar's hand, he started running, no real destination in mind, until after a bit he heard the labored breathing beside him. He led them into Old Chapel Alley and stopped. The scholar slumped against the wall.

"What do you want of me?" he gasped.

What _do_ I want of him? Richard asked himself. 

"At the moment, just this," he replied, and kissed him. 

He sensed surprise, at first, but then the scholar relaxed his body into Richard's and began to return the kiss with enthusiasm. Then it seemed that their hands were everywhere, reaching, fumbling with collars and buttons, slipping under waistbands, fingertips and lips and tongues exploring, more skin, more more _more_. Until there was no air left in the space between them, only heat, and Richard broke away, gasping himself.

"Just that?" the scholar chuckled, when they could both speak again. 

"No. More," Richard murmured. "I live close by, will you come?" 

"I'd be delighted to. I'm Alec, by the way. Has anyone told you -" he leaned in for another lingering kiss - "what an amazing kisser you are?"

"I'm Richard, Richard St Vier. And no, not enough, and not lately at all. Let's go someplace where we can work on that some more."


	6. Change of Plans

**Change of Plans**

Alec hadn't planned to live through one more night.

Tonight he'd go back to that shoddy tavern, instigate a fight, and be killed. The necessary insults needn't be all that complicated or even particularly original. A few choice words and the knives would come out. Alec might toss a drink in someone's face, just for added flair, and then the deed would be done. Foolproof.

Except it didn't work out that way at all. Aspersions cast over someone's mother's virtue, and then over the inferiority of the beer, went right over their heads. But when the question came up about the peculiar weight and heft of one of the dice - that's when chairs were kicked over and things finally started to happen. But damned if that runt of a swordsman, the one they called St Vier, hadn't put a stop to it all with just a word. "My fight," he said, in that unexpectedly soft voice, and then there were movements faster than Alec could follow until finally the one they called Fat Denny lay dead on the floor. Alec stared down at him for a long moment, then turned in fury towards the swordsman.

"You idiot! You've gone and bolloxed it all up!" And stomped up the stairs and out the door.

\---------

_Well, that was odd,_ Richard thought. Nodding an apology to Rosalie for the mess, he followed the ragged stranger outside. Pulling his jacket close around him against the cold wind, Richard half-ran to catch up with the man's long-legged gait, finally grabbing him by the arm and pushing him up against a crumbling brick wall.

"What was that all about?" he demanded.

"What was that? What was that? What it was was that I was picking a fight. And you spoiled it, you nitwit, after all my careful planning."

Richard laughed. "You must be joking. You wouldn't have lasted two minutes - Fat Denny would have skewered you like a pigeon."

"Maybe the skewering was part of the plan, you know? You shouldn't go around getting involved in fights that aren't your business. That's no way for a swordsman to make any money."

Richard looked up at him, surveying the long tangle of hair, the elegant cheekbones, the skin fine and pale under its griminess. On impulse, he ran his finger under the stubbled jawline and down the man's throat.

"Ohho," said the man softly, drawing his head back. "Perhaps you would consider cutting my throat instead? Though I don't have any money to pay you; you'd have to apply to my estate, along with all the others; but don't hold your breath over it."

"I have no intention whatsoever of slitting your throat. Can we stop talking about this killing you business? Because it's not going to happen."

"Not tonight, or not ever? Because if it's not going to be tonight, you might never get the chance. I'll freeze to death, instead, which is not what I had in mind at all. It just takes too long. I was planning a quick death, with maximum drama; something to make them say, 'Oh, poor Davey, a pity he came to such a bad end, but it's only to be expected, of course', or something like that.' "

"We don't have to stand out here freezing. We could go somewhere and talk about this death wish of yours."

"Why should I? My death wish is intensely personal; not something I'm interested in discussing with just anyone who pushes me up against a wall after completely fouling up my plans. Besides, where would we go? I'm no longer in the slightest mood for dingy taverns filled with bad-humored cardsharps and cheaply decorated women."

"To my rooms, then."

"As long as it's someplace warm, I don't care. How far is it? My feet are so cold I can't feel my knees. And you wouldn't happen to have anything there to eat, would you? Because I'm starving."

Richard laughed again. "It's not far at all. I think there's some bread and cheese, maybe a bit of wine we could heat up. Is that your name, Davey?"

The man looked down at him, an odd, twisted smile on his face. "Not any more it isn't. You can call me Alec."

\---------

Alec opened his eyes. It was morning, and he was still alive. He paused to consider the situation.

Alive in a very comfortable bed, with a body curled around him. Alec rolled his hips back experimentally: yes, definitely a man's body. _Ummmm,_ murmured the man, as he slid his hand along Alec's thigh, his warm lips nuzzling the stubble under Alec's jawline. Alec shivered pleasantly, remembering the night before, the wine, the things he and St Vier had done together, amazing, marvelous things.

_Perhaps,_ Alec thought, _ being alive another day might not be so bad._


	7. Midnight/Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted April, 2012. A birthday gift for Oshun.

**Midnight**

Afterwards, they slept.

Richard awoke a few hours later. At first he was confused at the warm, sticky weight next to him; it had been ages since he'd entertained company in his bed. Luxuriously, he stretched.

"Wha' is it?" the scholar mumbled.

"It's nothing," Richard replied, nuzzling him gently on the back of the neck, then re-settling himself  
in a comfortable curve against his body, listening to his soft snoring. 

Richard smiled into the dark. He'd desired this intriguing, disturbing man for some time, and the anticipation had sharpened his appetite. Last night had been good. Today would be better. 

 

**Morning **

When Alec woke up, he was alone.

Richard's spot was cold - he'd been gone for some time. Alec drowsily tried to recall the etiquette for a lover walking out of his _own_ home in the morning, but couldn't remember any. Soon he fell back asleep.

A noise in the outer room woke him again. Bright sunlit seeped through the shutters. He wrapped a blanket around himself and stumbled to the open bedroom door. 

The swordsman, stripped to the waist, was sloshing his hands in a bowl of water, dabbing at his forearm with a cloth. The water in the bowl was red. 

"You left," Alec said accusingly. 

The swordsman looked up. "I had an early job. You looked comfortable; I didn't see any point in waking you."

Alec yawned. "You've been out killing people, and I haven't even had breakfast."

"It's what I do." Richard nodded toward a loaf and wedge of cheese on the table, well away from the washbowl. "I brought us something."

Alec looked at the food, then looked back at Richard. He let the blanket drop. 

"Come back to bed," he said.

Richard raked his eyes over him, top to bottom. He smiled. "All right."


	8. Love and Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted July, 2011.

"I'll be back soon," Richard said, buckling on his everyday sword, "and then we can go to the Brown Dog, if you'd like, if it's not raining." He waited for Alec to reply. "Or not. You think about it." Engrossed in his reading, Alec merely grunted.

After Richard had left Alec lay aside his book and thought, not about food, but about death. Oblivion: cessation of thought and feeling, of fear or rage or frustration. Alec had thought, well, he had always heard, that death was easily found in Riverside, where a man could cut your throat as easily as look at you. All it took was a word, or a sideways glance, or sitting in the wrong chair in some seedy tavern. 

And he had been certain, once he met the notorious St Vier, that his death was imminent. He had tried insulting him, his mother, his friends, his choice in drinks. He tried getting in the way of his blade, discovering that it was true what everyone said St Vier could do with just a flick of his wrist. He had even point-blank asked for death, a credit contract of course, since he had no money to speak of. Yet all his machinations rolled like water off a duck's back, bothering St Vier not in the slightest.

And then, of all the totally unexpected and incomprehensible things to happen, St Vier had invited him to his rooms, to his bed. Not just once but again and again, and then didn't seem to mind in the slightest when Alec invited himself, bringing his few meager possessions with him. St Vier had just smiled that small, maddening smile of his, opened the door wide, and pulled Alec down to the chaise, kissing him slowly and deeply, a warming kiss, a housewarming kiss. They lay tangled together for hours. Alec had never felt so content, so safe. 

So now death, his own death, was not quite so appealing an option. But the possibility of death was ever-present: it was, after all, Richard's stock in trade, what paid for the two rooms and the bread and cheese and the drinks at Rosalie's. He killed, quickly and efficiently. He had killed his lover, a woman, right here in this room, a fact which alternately fascinated, terrified, and aroused Alec. What had she done? Burnt the toast, left clothes sopping wet on the floor, displeased Richard in bed? Alec could do any of those things himself; then the bright blade would flash, one thrust straight to the heart. It could happen at any moment, without the slightest warning - 

The door opened. "Oh, good, you haven't gone out yet," Richard said, reaching under his cloak. Alec gasped, then stood up, steeling himself. All right then, this is it.

"Auld Meggie was packing up her booth; said the damp was kicking up her arthritis something fierce, so I carried her baskets home for her. She was so grateful she let me pick out whatever I wanted. I brought you some fish."


	9. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blood.

**Scars**

Of course Richard has scars – he's a swordsman, after all – and Alec finds them fascinating. There's that long one on Richard's wrist, the one he loves to press his lips against, savoring Richard's pulse. There are a few on his chest, but those are long old scratches now, no worse than he'd have gotten from the cat. There's one on the outside of his thigh, too - “I fell out of a tree, when I was ten,” Richard says, ruefully, and Alec laughs at the thought of the wild and wicked boy he must have been. 

Sometimes Richard comes home bleeding; new long glyphs incised on his forearm or collarbone, or slashing diagonally from shoulder to waist, leaving his jacket or shirt in tatters to be mended, once again, by the long-suffering Marie. Alec will warm the water, chipping a few shreds of precious soap into the bowl, and dab daintily at the blood. Sometimes, though, he'll kiss the ruby-red droplets away, or brush his head against them until his face is sticky with Richard's blood. They don't have much to say to each other, those times, but once they are in bed their lovemaking is peculiarly tender, and they lie awake for a long time afterwards without speaking. 

(Alec has scars, too; Richard stopped what he was doing, shocked, the first time he saw them, the first time they went to bed together. “I was not a biddable child,” Alec murmurred, waving his hand languidly. “There were beatings.” After they had made love Richard traced his finger along the length of each scar, kissing each one of them slowly, carefully, listening to Alec catch his breath each time.)


	10. Envy

**Envy**

It was late afternoon on MidWinter day, and the drinking had started even earlier than usual at Rosalie's. Ginny Vandall, waiting on her Hugo, had drunk just enough to decide that she couldn't stand that smug young man, St Vier's precious Alec, one moment longer. The supposed scholar sat at the bar now, instead of a table, acting like he belonged there, when everyone knew he didn't. Under the ragged cloak he wore like shabby armor, he was arrayed in holiday finery, new jacket and expensive new boots. His freshly washed hair, flowing rich as silk, was held back with an enameled clip.

_He's got to go,_ she thought. Picking up her drink, she moved down the bar towards him. The other patrons backed away, but not so far that they wouldn't be able to see and hear what was about to happen. This would be entertaining.

"St Vier's whore," she hissed. The man choked on his drink. "We can all see what you get out of him, but what we can't figure is what _he_ gets out of _you_."

"Why, Ginny, are you jealous?" Wiping his mouth, he turned those wide, catlike eyes towards her. She wanted nothing so much as to slap that smirk away.

"Did you not ever have a chance with our Richard? Coming young and fresh from the country, I would have thought he'd find a woman of your considerable experience very appealing. Or perhaps not. He does have some rather peculiar tastes, have you noticed?"

She wanted to back away from him then but she felt trapped, like a coney under a cats' mesmerizing gaze.

"The truth of the the matter is, I do have one amazing talent. It's something that I do with my tongue; something he can't get from the ladies here, or the boys at the Apricot, or even any of his noble lovers up on the hill. I've fascinated him with it from the very first night he brought me home. Would you like to know what it is?"

He leaned forward to whisper. "It's _intelligent conversation_. Richard really likes that while he's fucking, and he can't get it from anyone but me." He sat up, eyes glowing in triumph.

_Arrogant bastard. _She couldn't help herself - her hand was raised to slap him when strong fingers encircled her wrist. "Don't, Ginny," St Vier murmured.

"Richard!" the loathsome young man cried gleefully. "We were just talking about you!"

"Were you, now." The swordsman smiled.

"Have I ever told you," the scholar said, untangling his long limbs and cloak from the barstool, and taking St Vier's arm, "about how the distance from the earth to the moon can be calculated by determining the angle subtended by two straight lines running from both ends of the Earth's radius to the Moon?"

St Vier laughed. "No, Alec, you haven't".

"Well then, have I got a special treat for you tonight. The sun, the moon, and the earth form a right triangle....." And they were gone, out into the night.

"Have another drink, Ginny," Rosalie said. "You might as well; there's no way to compete with that, until Richard gets him out of his system, one way or another."


	11. Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous (100 words)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written and posted as comment fic to Celandineb's story, [Knotted Time](http://community.livejournal.com/_riverside/29018.html), which is all about The Bed.

"This is quite nice, actually," Alec announced, plumping the new goose-feather pillows.

Marie and her friend Nan Sharpe had truly outdone themselves. The sheets, neatly mended and laundered, were crisply scented of lavender and the scorching iron. The bed itself had been polished until it gleamed, the smell of lemon oil lingering on the dark wood. Nan had even swept the floor.

"Nobles must feel like this all the time," Richard mused.

"Feel like what?"

"Well cared-for. Pampered. "

Alec lay back on the pillows and spread his legs open wide.

"Come over here. I'll show you some pampering."


	12. At Leisure (100 words)

Richard never tires of watching Alec sleep, his long body rumpled and pale as the tangled bedsheets they lie upon. He loves how Alec's mouth hangs slightly open, his lower lip ripe and full, like the hothouse strawberries served so extravagantly at MidWinter parties on the Hill. Richard has sampled all the delights on offer during that festival of reckless abandon. None have ever tasted as sweet as Alec, especially that spot on the underside of Alec's jaw, just where it joins the throat. Richard licks it, once, and Alec smiles, stretches, arching backwards toward him, languorous as a cat.


	13. Creatures of the Night (100 words)

Alec loves to roam the streets at Richard's side. The swordsman is as sleek and beautiful as a wild animal, all coiled muscle, unpredictable and deadly. Lesser creatures hold their breath until the danger has passed; the reckless do not realize their peril until too late.

Blood shed heats their blood. After the kill they return home, triumphant, hungry. Richard straddles Alec, pinning his wrists above his head, his mouth greedily roving Alec's bared throat, chest and belly, down and down, until Alec feels ravaged, ravished, loved.

Sated, they curl around each other like cats, and sleep away the daylight.


	14. Perfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted July, 2009. Inspired by 's fengtianshi's artwork, linked [here](http://community.livejournal.com/_riverside/54475.html).

The skin of Alec's back is perfectly fine-grained, supple as silk. Richard is almost afraid to touch it, imagining his calloused fingertips marring its beauty. He nuzzles Alec's shoulder, spare and elegant, lapping at it like a cat licking cream, while Alec makes soft, needy sounds in his throat. 

Richard curves his body around Alec's, everything slipping together into a perfect fit. He slides his hands up Alec's thighs, feeling him shiver as at last he wraps his fingers around Alec's prick. Alec leans back into his arms with a soft sigh, and Richard feels his fears dissolve like mist.


	15. Enthralled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Edoraslass's gorgeous Boromir/Theodred ficlet, ["Enthralled"](http://edoraslass.livejournal.com/61092.html), as well as by Heartofoshun's equally lovely ["Made To Touch Me"](http://community.livejournal.com/_riverside/42535.html). A birthday drabble for przed.

Alec watches as Richard tends to his blade.

Long strokes, slow, rhythmic, precise. Alec can scarcely breathe, enthralled by the beauty of Richard's hands, his absolute concentration, caring for the blade he loves as if it were a part of himself.

Richard senses his gaze, looks up, smiles.

"Bed," Alec says, reaching out his hand; Richard sets the blade aside carefully and lets Alec pull him up. They stand together a moment, breath to breath, heart to heart. Then Alec nuzzles Richard's palm, still slick with oil, bites the pad of Richard's thumb, one sharp nip, and Richard shivers.


	16. Chef's Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was "pancakes". Originally posted June, 2012.

"Not again," Richard groaned. "Why do we always have to have fish?"   
   
"Fish is cheap and simple to cook.  Essential attributes for the poverty-stricken."   
   
"I'm not_ always_ poverty-stricken. What about, oh, pancakes?”  
   
"Pancakes require eggs, milk, butter.  And_ I _don’t touch pancakes unless they’re covered with whipped cream and strawberries.”  
   
_Whipped cream and strawberries? _ Richard thought incredulously. Out loud he said, "If I could come up with those things, could you make us pancakes?"   
   
"I _could_; how are you planning on accumulating such bounty?"   
   
Richard strapped on his sword. "I'm going to find someone who wants someone killed."


	17. Mad, Bad Boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Untitled for a long time; the working title was "Naughty Boys on the Stairs". A birthday gift for Oshun, April 10, 2010.

_They're just fooling themselves,_ Marie thought, glancing out the window as her lodgers made their way across the snowy courtyard, a good shoulder's-width between them. So hesitant of public displays, so careful not to touch each other where anyone could see. As if no-one was supposed to have any idea what the swordsman and his ragged scholar meant to each each other. 

But once the heavy oak door closed behind them, and the tarnished brass lock clanged shut, well, everything changes. How many times had she seen seen them push each other against the wall, their fingers fumbling over buttons and laces to reach the sweetness underneath , as if all their long day's hunger must be sated in those first delicious moments of privacy? How many times had she, laughing, followed a trail of discarded clothing down the hallway and up the stairs? Shaking her head, she collected it all, mended and laundered and left it outside their door, a gift to her favorite lodgers, even if they were hardly the quietest.

One night, when she was sleeping blessedly alone, she was awakened by a great clattering out in the stairwell. Wrapping a quilt around herself, she opened the door and peeked outside. In the dim light of the single wall sconce, she saw the scholar sprawled on the staircase, his head pillowed on his arms. "Drunk, again," she thought, and then she noticed his trousers somewhere down around his ankles, just as Richard's were, stretched out a few steps below him. 

Slowly she let her eyes take in the whole scene, barely stifling her laughter. Alec's long bare legs and scrawny buttocks; Richard's pale bottom, thrusting powerfully, rhythmically. "Hurry, hurry, I can't, oh, please, please, " Alec was whimpering, sounding more desperate by the moment. Richard peered down through the bannister at Marie, tossed her a quick grin, and then threw back his head, crying out with fierce joy just before the two of them collapsed together in a heap. 

"Richard, that was _extraordinary_," she heard Alec murmur, and then Richard's low rumbling laugh as she softly closed the door. 

_Those mad, bad boys,_ she thought. _They almost make me feel young again._


	18. Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted during the Great Heat Wave of July, 2013. A birthday ficlet for profiterole.

It's damnably hot. Alec hangs damp cloths in the windows to catch the breeze, but it doesn't help – there's nothing to catch. Too hot to talk, too hot to think, too hot to fuck. They lay on the bed, barely dozing, trying to keep some space between their sticky bodies. It's hard, not touching, when they are used to sleeping curled together. Every now and then Alec runs the side his foot along Richard's calf. Alec's foot is rough, callused, and it scratches slightly. It's just enough touch, just enough pressure, and Richard smiles.

Sometime during the night a thunderstorm blows through, winds whipping the cloths and flinging them to the floor as the rain pours in. Alec gets up, cursing under his breath, to close the shutters, but, _No, wait,_ Richard murmurs. 

He throws the windows open even wider, and leans outward, pulling Alec with him. The rain quickly soaks them to the skin, and together they laugh, then duck back inside. It's cooler now, their bodies almost chilled, so they roll themselves up in a sheet and fall back onto the bed, their wet hair dripping onto the pillows as they wrap themselves around each other once again.


	19. The Queen's Sword and His Wizard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted July, 2013. Inspired by [ all that 00Q](http://archiveofourown.org/bookmarks?utf8=%E2%9C%93&bookmark_search%5Bsort_column%5D=created_at&bookmark_search%5Btag_ids%5D%5B%5D=609358&bookmark_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&bookmark_search%5Bquery%5D=&bookmark_search%5Brec%5D=0&bookmark_search%5Bwith_notes%5D=0&commit=Sort+and+Filter&user_id=just_ann_now) I've been reading lately.   
> (And, like Kushner's story, "The Swordsman Whose Name Was Not Death", the title is the title of the story, and not the story itself. )

Once the storm had broken the heat, a string of gloriously cool and sunny days followed. Alec flung the windows wide, startling the pigeons and cats in the courtyard. The pigeons fluttered away, relieved; the cats glared up at him. 

"It's very pleasant out. We should go for a picnic," he announced. 

"Sounds good," Richard replied, strapping on his second-best sword. Alec's concept of "pleasant" was variable as the weather, and Richard's nature was always to be prepared. 

They stopped in the market for bread and cheese and olives, plums and apricots and a bottle of wine. After crossing the bridge, they headed to the Ramble, down by the river. Many others apparently had the same idea: they passed families with children, lovers young and old, students and clerks and shop girls, rapscallions and cutpurses. There was laughter, and faraway snatches of song. They finally found a spot under a willow tree, secluded, but with a view of the path. The flattened grass indicated the spot had recently been vacated. 

As they ate, Alec made wry comments about each of the passers-by, but they were less cynical, less malicious than usual. "This is the life," he sighed, leaning back against the tree. Richard smiled. In this moment, life _was_ good: the air was warm, the breeze just enough to ruffle Alec's hair. Birds sang, and bees hummed industriously. He could not touch Alec as he wanted to, here; could not lay him down in the sweet-smelling grass and brush the hair back from his forehead; savor the scent and taste his skin and hear him cry out in pleasure. But he could capture this moment in his memory, for later. 

But then Alec sat up abruptly, reaching for something under the small of his back. "Pigs," he grumbled, "leaving their discards everywhere. Don't they have trash pits in their own gardens? 

"It's a book," Richard said, surprised. The volume was leather-bound and gold-stamped.

Alec let out a low whistle. “ 'The Queen's Sword and His Wizard – Illustrated Edition'. A private printing. Whoever left it will be sorry, I'll wager."

"I've never heard of it. What's it about?"

"It's based on a series of plays, blood and intrigue things. The Queen's Sword is a spy; he goes about dealing murder and mayhem to her enemies, using his own considerable skill, and magical weapons devised by the Wizard." Richard snorted. 

Alec flipped through the pages. "The Sword and the Wizard are _very_ good friends, so whenever he comes back alive and whole there's a bit of a celebration." He turned the book sideways, his eyes widening. "Oh, my," he murmured. "I can see why the Wizard's always so happy to have him back." 

"Let me see." Richard reached for the book. He chuckled, then closed the book and tucked it into the basket. 

"Let's bring our picnic home, and you can read it to me there."

Alec wagged his eyebrows. "In bed?" he said, leering like a comic villain. 

"In bed," Richard agreed.


	20. Not Quite A Sure Thing (100 words)

"Why's everyone being so nice to me?" Alec asked, half-bowing to the baked-apple lady, who had just presented him with a spice-flecked concoction. Popularity was a new and unexpected experience.

"Apparently, news of your august origin has preceded your triumphant return. They want to be remembered if Tremontaine ever needs a pocket picked, or someone infected with the clap."

"I'm not the duke yet."Alec grinned as he licked honey off his fingers. "And with Grandmother's fickle nature, it's hardly likely that I will be."

"You know Riverside's predilection for gambling. Perhaps they're just hedging their bets."


	21. Future Plans

**Future Plans** (556 Words)

The letter still lay on the table where Alec had tossed it days before. Richard knew what it said; he had heard all the gossip at Rosalie's, and in the market, and pretty much everywhere he had been since then. The glances he had received in the Middle City were appraising; the congratulations he'd received in Riverside were enthusiastic. “Moving across the river, are you? About damn time; you're meant for finer things than this, and he -” shoulders shrugged in the general direction of wherever the new Duke Tremontaine could be presumed to be “- well, he never really did fit in around'ere, did he?”

But the new Duke had mentioned nothing of the kind to Richard; in fact, Alec's life seemed to have changed very little so far. He still spent his days on the chaise-longue, absently stroking the cat while reading one of the same three books that had lived on the mantlepiece since he'd moved in. He still drank from the same jug of sour wine he'd won at dicing last week. He still embraced Richard in bed with enthusiasm, and slept like a rock afterwards. But the question hung over Richard's head like a storm cloud, and he suddenly, unaccountably, felt the urge to bring matters to a head. 

“Are you moving, then?” he asked. 

Alec's hand stilled momentarily. The cat chirruped, irritated at this interruption to her daily ministrations. 

“Moving where?” Alec replied. 

“Don't play games. You know where. Tremontaine House.”

“Tremontaine House.” Alec drawled out the name slowly, as though he were unraveling a knitted muffler stitch by stitch. “Well, there are more books there.”

Richard waited. 

“And candles, lots of lovely beeswax candles. And I wouldn't have to cook fish over an open fire any more. You'd like that part of it; I know you get tired of fish, but it's one of the few things I can cook. And it's cheap.”

Richard waited. Alec turned on his side and stretched, long-limbed and luxurious, temporarily displacing the cat, who turned herself 'round and 'round, glaring at Richard before resettling. Alec smiled up at Richard. 

“I suppose we could move there. Or we could visit, upon occasion, when we feel the urge for things like heat and light and new reading materials and rich, expensively prepared food. All those trivialities. Or -” he reached out for Richard, who curled himself next to him on the chaise, resting his head on Alec's shoulder “-we could also fix this place up a bit. Sweep the chimneys, install some lighting, decorate. A library for me, a practice room for you. Hire a cook, a butler, guards, footmen, a whole staff. We could make it just like Tremontaine House, only it would be so much more _fun_. ”

“All that, in two rooms?” Richard murmured. 

“I was thinking of expanding. Knocking down walls, extending hallways. First off, evicting those annoying neighbors. What do you think?”

Richard knew it didn't matter what he thought, really; he would follow Alec to the ends of the earth and back. But it _would_ be more fun here in Riverside than up on the Hill, that was for damn sure.

“Whatever you like,” he replied, and, because he knew exactly what Alec liked, he began by nuzzling Alec's throat, as both Alec and the cat began to purr.


	22. Home (161 words)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for _The Privilege of the Sword_. Inspired by psuedo_catalyst's drabble [Market Day](http://community.livejournal.com/_riverside/39096.html), so you probably want to go read that first.

"Tell me," Richard whispered, later, "what color you finally decided on for the drapes."

"Blue, deep blue, like the sea on a sunny day, with leaves and flowers and birds embroidered in cream. They're not very elaborate, really. Not like..."

"What kind of birds? And what are the flowers?"

"Finches? Pigeons? Damned if I know. The flowers are those little daisy-like things that grow all over the place here, fields and fields of them."

"Is that what I smell, along with the thyme? I can hear the bees buzzing, and the birds. It must be their mating season; they're much noisier than they were a few weeks ago."

Alec took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut; he didn't want Richard's questing fingers to discover the tears welling. "I'll take a good look at those birds tomorrow, and tell you about them."

Richard's lips brushed against his hair, soft and quiet as an owl's wing.

"Thank you. I'd like that."


	23. Fragrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted July, 2012

"What is that scent?" Richard asked. He brushed his fingertips against the overhanging spray of blossoms that edged the doorway. Rose-colored petals drifted down to the flagstones. 

"Careful, the bees - " Alec started, then stopped; Richard had yet to be stung. They hummed happily in his company, as if paying homage to their master. Alec had been stung often enough that the first words he had learned here were _oh no, not again_, from their housekeeper.

"Those are some kind of reddish thing, very showy, but no perfume."Alec continued. "There's jasmine, off to the side, here, perhaps that's what you smell."

"Jasmine," Richard murmured. "And thyme, and rosemary, and salt water." He smiled. "I like the air here. I like everything here."

Alec caught Richard's hand and brushed it against his lips. Without sight, his gestures spoke volumes. "So do I," he said. Richard squeezed his hand in reply.


	24. Flying Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted February, 2009. A Snow Day ficlet for fallingtowers.

Jessica was in the garden eating her breakfast when she heard rustling in the branches overhead.

"What are you doing?" She craned her neck upwards. Nothing was predictable here; she wasn't sure how she felt about that yet. 

"I'm smelling for the weather," her father's companion replied. "Do you want to come up?"

"I can't. I'm in skirts, and I've never -"

"Try. What's the worst that could happen?" 

_I could break my leg, both legs, and be stuck here with you two madmen forever, _she thought, but then she quickly stripped down to her pantalets and chemise and started climbing. After a while her arms and shoulders were scratched and sticky with sap. When she was near the top, strong brown hands reached down for her, pulling her up to settle next to him on a wide, sturdy branch. 

From there she could see the whole world! The sky was a blue that had never existed in the City. The hills all around were dusty olive-green or sere brown, and what looked like marble ruins were tumbled down in the distance. There was a whisper of far-off rain in the breeze that tousled her hair. She felt, for a moment, like a hawk, strong and wild and free. 

"What do you think?" he asked.

_I think this is the most wonderful thing I've ever done, and I think you_ \- "It's nice," she said. 

"Yes, it is," he laughed, and dropped straight down from the branch, bending his knees to roll when he hit the ground. She scrambled down after him, running to where he stood drinking well-water from a wooden bucket as her father surveyed his beehives, muttering. 

"Show me how you did that," she said breathlessly, and he did, over and over, until she had it right.


	25. In the Village

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for _The Privilege of the Sword_. Jossed by Ellen Kushner's "The Man with the Knives"!

Her father was in the city, treating the Ambassador's syphilitic son, so it fell to Sophia to tend to the gash on the stranger's arm.

The two men had been living in the white house above the sea for some time now. The villagers' innate suspicion had been assuaged by the money, flowing like autumn rain - a housekeeper and handyman; bee skeps and beekeeping supplies; books and pottery and bright tapestries; fruit and cheese and wine from all over the island. The blind man, it was said, practiced the sword for hours each day while his friend read or studied the bees or the weather or played intricate card games by himself. They had no visitors; went to bed early and arose late.

The man who had been cut was laughing, unconcerned about the blood dripping all over the fine linen of his shirtsleeve. His friend, the blind swordsman whose blade had gone astray, hovered about anxiously. Sophia knew a little bit of their language, and the patter of their words was like raindrops, a pleasant background noise as she concentrated on stitching the wound.

"It wasn't your fault, Richard, how many times do I have to say so? It was either throw out my arm for balance, or trip and risk losing the whole crock. And you worked so hard on that dandelion wine; I was not about to give it up. I'm still looking forward to drinking it."

"I should have been paying more attention. I heard your footsteps, I heard the piglets - how could I not, they make such a racket! - but didn't realize they were about to run across your path. Is the cut very deep? "

"Well, runaway pigs are quick, as well as noisy. I'm sure swine husbandry is an aspect of country life you've forgotten. The cut is nothing. This young lady - " Sophia couldn't help but look up and smile, betraying the fact that she'd been listening, but the man paid no mind - "has sewn me up admirably. It'll look like fine embroidery. Perhaps I should get a tattoo, oak and ivy like the old wizards, to set it off."

"A tattoo? You? You know how you are about pain. Let's go home and try out that wine; you'll be hurting later and it will help. Good day, miss, and thank you." The swordsman nodded to her, and instinctively she curtseyed, though she knew he could not see it.

She watched them as they headed back up the dusty trail to their house, the blind man nodding and occasionally laughing, his staff barely grazing the ground ahead of him as he walked; his friend talking and waving his hands about like a windmill in a stiff breeze. _They look so comfortable,_ Sophia thought. _As if they have always been together, and always will be._ And throughout the day, as she milked goats and baked bread and hung laundry, she thought about them, and smiled.


	26. Without Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted November, 2012. Inspired by jay_of_lasgalen's Hallowe'en story, ["The Inn at the Crossroads"](http://community.livejournal.com/_riverside/76364.html).

There was no Ghost Night tradition on Kyros, but Campione had called for candles to be lit all along the mantlepiece, the windowsills, and in the center of the wooden table. Then he sat down, as if waiting. 

Sophia said nothing. She was still unfamiliar with her husband, his sudden moods and strange fancies. Perhaps this was yet another odd custom from his faraway home, the city of which he seldom spoke, but always with such thinly veiled longing. She wondered if she might see the city, one day, but it did not seem likely.

They sat for a long time, as the slanted golden light of evening deepened into shadow. Finally he spoke. 

"He always said that there was no reason to fear the ghosts you knew," he murmured. 

"I should think not," Sofia replied softly. "You would welcome them, should they come to visit." She knew he had nothing to fear from the one he had loved. "Perhaps have some wine ready, and their favorite foods."

Campione laughed, his mood suddenly lighter. "Spiced red wine, and honeycakes. He always said our honey was the sweetest he ever tasted."

"Let me get some, then," she said, "and we'll toast his memory."


	27. Triptych

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three men. Three tales. Three drabbles. Inspired by a prompt provided by wordsofastory:
> 
> _All I have to do _  
> is hear his name  
> and every hair on my body  
> just bristles with desire. *

**Richard ** _ (Swordspoint)_

No one in Riverside knows his name, but everyone knows him: _that fuckin' idjit student, you know the one._ Long hair, long legs, voice smooth as honey, but speech bitter as gall. It's very likely he'll end up dead any day now. Richard will be sorry to see it, but then, no one's asked him to become involved. 

The rude part of Richard's brain wants to shove the man up against a wall somewhere and fuck him until they both collapse in a heap. 

The less-rude part suggests that he could get things started by just buying him a beer. 

 

**Alec** _ (The Privilege of the Sword)_

No-one dares mention his name.

I know they still speak of him, in Riverside and on the Hill. But they've learned how I'll freeze them with a glance, cut them with a word. 

No other (I've never called another "lover"; there was only, ever, him) has ever made me _feel_, the way he did. He satisfied me, body and soul. Even after all these years, the mere thought of him makes me bristle with desire. 

Each night I imagine the brush of his lips against my hair. _Richard_, I whisper. I ache. I burn. I curse myself for a fool. 

 

**Michael** _(The Fall of the Kings)_

There is pride in Lady Sophia's eyes as she presents her son. Handsome, soft-spoken, gentlemanly; a worthy heir to Tremontaine. His father, the runaway student, notorious Duke, had changed my life.

There are few of us left who had known his lover, the swordsman, yet he glides catlike through our memories: beautiful, dangerous, vividly alive. 

Alas, it's been years since my loins have stirred, but I only have to think of the name – St Vier! - to feel a sudden, aching sweetness, the remembered heat of desire. I wryly shake away the memories, and smile into the young man's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *All I Have to Do - Anonymous, translated by Martha Ann Selby
> 
> All I have to do   
> is hear his name  
> and every hair on my body  
> just bristles with desire.
> 
> When I see  
> the moon of his face,  
> this frame of mine  
> oozes sweat like a moonstone.
> 
> When that man  
> as dear to me as breath  
> steps close enough to me  
> to stroke my neck,
> 
> the thought of jealousy  
> is shattered in my heart  
> that's only sometimes  
> hard as diamond.


	28. Stories I Never Wrote (Added April 9, 2017)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Live Journal challenge: _Tell me about a story I haven't written, and I'll give you between one and three sentences from that story. _

_The story of when Jessica first meets Theron would be pretty cool to hear a few sentences from._

Jessica peered into the cradle. Since she didn't know anything about babies (and didn't want to know) she couldn't tell if he were a particularly handsome child or not. His hair was thin, and barely covered his skull. His eyes - what color were his eyes? It was impossible to tell. She hoped, rather shallowly she thought to herself, that he would be attractive, but then, why would he need to be? He could have been born with three eyes and six legs, and he would still have all the wealth and power of the Mad Duke's legacy at his command. 

She bent to give him a soft kiss, knowing the gesture would please his mother. "Best wishes. little brother," she whispered.

***

_The one where Richard leaves Alec to go to Highcombe._

Alec watched from the bedroom window as the carriage rode away. They had said their farewells here, hours ago; there was no need to make a show for the household staff. 

He pressed his head against the glass, hoping the chill would ease his aching head. Or perhaps he needed the pain, something to focus on besides his sense of aching loss.

***

_The crossover fic where Alec discusses food in a firelit kitchen with [my OFC][Mag the Cook](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122820/chapters/2263105)_.

"I knew the moment I met you in the Fish Market, Mag," Alec drawled, pouring her another glass of wine, "cussing like a sailor, that you were the cook I needed for Tremontaine House. Culinary skills to dazzle the Hill; management expertise to keep the staff cowering in their boots."

Mag's eyes twinkled. "I can do all that and more, manage your kitchen and you and your unruly lover, all with one hand tied behind my back. I did it in the White City, and I can do it in yours, too."

***

_The one where Alec insists on bringing the cat to the Tremontaine mansion._

The carriage rolled up to the front entrance of Tremontaine House. A footman stumbled out of the carriage, dragging a willow basket behind him. The footman's livery was shredded, and blood streaked his face and hands. 

The Duke Tremontaine flew down the front steps. "Puss!" he cried. He unlatched the basket, and a spitting, hissing ball of fury emerged. It reached forward to claw him, but suddenly retracted its claws and seemed to melt, like magic, into a purring, oozing pile of furry goo. Alec wrapped his arms around it, holding it up to his face. 

Richard held his breath. "Dear, dear, Puss!" Alec cried. Puss placed one paw on each of Alec's shoulders like an embrace and rubbed its face all over his. 

"See, Richard," Alec murmured. "You're not the only one who loves me."

***

_Richard was brought to Highcombe, but why did he decide on the room he chose? _

The high-ceilinged, empty halls reminded him too much of Tremontaine House. He didn't need to hear his footsteps echo to be reminded of all that he had lost. 

The housekeeper's parlor reminded him of his boyhood home, woodsmoke and apples and dried tansy. He sniffed appreciatively, the first time she showed him round, recognizing the herbs by smell and chatting with her about their uses. He was sorry to displace her, but he loved the room at once, like a fox discovering a lair.


End file.
